Metal Gear Strike
by D6T
Summary: War isn't what it used to be. Politics and espionage create new world disorder, when conventional conflicts could wipe us off the map. The development of new super weapons threatens to tip the world's balance, and they're so secret no-one knows about them - for now. There is a war of untold magnitude on the horizon, and only one organization can stop the war, before it happens.
1. STRIKE

Prologue

January 1981/ 10:01 AM/ Oval Office

* * *

Ronald Reagan yawned as he sat behind his desk in the Oval office, once again pondering the enormity of the trust that the American Public had placed with him, their fortieth President. Was he honoured? Yes, he was, since the American populace had truly taken a risk with him, considering the way that many of his rivals had tried to mock him using his acting career. But, then again, that's politics. How he tired of it sometimes.

He swivelled his chair to stare out of the large windows behind his desk, which gave him a wonderful view of the White House grounds. It was a grey day, the sky maintaining a somewhat miserable outlook, but the depressive weather failed to shake the new president's spirits. His inauguration was still a recent memory, and he had much to do – a less centralised government for starters, and dealing with the Soviets, especially after the mess that Carter had left him…

Détente had failed, and rightly so. It wasn't right, that America and her allies should co-operate with something as twisted as the Soviet regime, and Afghanistan was proof of that. The Soviets want nothing less than power.

"And it's up to us, the American people, to stop them" he thought to himself. He could see it now, the tumultuous presidency he was to have. Support and criticism flying around in reaction to his policies, the political unions he would have to make, the decisions he would have to spearhead. Still, sometimes, a leader needs to be strong against his own people – there were still those who believed in Détente – and it was up to him to set them on the right path. At least he had the support of the American population. They seemed to recognize the necessity of action and reform, not like certain figures within American politics.

Reagan heard the door behind him open quickly, with no prior announcement.

"Strange," he thought, "I had no appointments".

He turned around, and was taken aback somewhat by the sight that greeted him. The room was empty, save for one man standing silently in front of his desk, having crossed from the door almost silently, with surprising speed, which was odd, considering his obvious reliance on a crutch on his left arm. He had no right arm, and wore a long trench coat, buttoned up as to mask whatever he was wearing underneath, with his eyes being hidden by impenetrable sunglasses. Most striking was his blonde hair, masked slightly by a beret, boasting a symbol that was unfamiliar to Reagan. It was simply an S, but rather than being smooth, was made up of lines and edges, almost like the S seen in graffiti. It was also coloured purple.

Before the president could react, the man spoke, as if from a speech he had made many times. "Good morning, Mr President. I have no doubt you are wondering who I am, and fear not, it will be explain-"

"Who the hell are you?" retorted Reagan, disregarding the words of this figure. "You can't just waltz in here like you own this office, without following procedure. If I wouldn't accept it from my most senior staff, why should I accept it from you? Tell me, or I'm calling in the service and prosecuting you."

The man gave a small chuckle. "Mr President, no disrespect to you, but I wouldn't talk to me like that. It's not healthy. Now, if you'll let me continue…"

"I'm calling them in"

Reagan went to press the panic button underneath his desk, in awe that this man, this psycho, got past security. Clearly, the White House wasn't as secure as it should be. A crutch flew down onto the desk, resulting in a large crack as the desk struggled to maintain itself under the force behind the blow. It also froze Reagan momentarily, in which he stared at the man in disbelief.

"Mr President, " he began, his crutch still on the desk, "I am going to explain my presence to you, you will listen, and that will be that. Disagree, and I'll have to escalate things. Understand?"

Reagan nodded.

"Right, my name is Miller. Kazuhira Miller. You will never have heard of me, or the people I represent, since they are outside the bounds of conventional governance, and as such beyond your control. We are an organization that is forges an alliance with all the major NATO nations, and trust me when I say all leaders within those countries have their similar briefings. I can't tell you our real name, for security reasons, but you can call us by our public name, STRIKE."

Reagan absorbed the information given, and put the pieces together. The phrase 'Outside the bounds of conventional governance' was the most troubling.

"Do you mean to say that your… organization is not only above my command, even as Commander-in-chief of the US Military, but unanswerable to the Public?"

"Indeed. Think of us as Guardian Angels. Our objective is, preferably, to stop wars before they happen, and if they do happen, to end them quickly."

Miller paused, and looked at the president as if he was weighing him up.

"However, he continued, "to make the process easier, we serve as an independent, classified organization. When I say STRIKE is our public name, it's probably the wrong word to use since, hopefully, the public will never learn of our existence. It keeps the situation simpler and much more effective that way."

Reagan leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms. "Why are you telling me this then, if you're above my control? You sound more like a paramilitary organization than anything else." He took another look at the apparel of this 'Miller'. "Plus, you don't look like any general I've seen."

He gestured toward his clothes to emphasise his point.

Miller turned around, and hobbled to one of the sofas that were in the room, sitting down. "While we are outside your control, you still are the head of state. Therefore, we have found it more efficient to give you the necessary information we acquire in order to, as I said, prevent war. Take, for example, Vietnam. We informed Kennedy that a military build-up in the nation would serve no purpose than to create a long stalemate, that could last decades, but he planned to anyway."

"But Kennedy didn't really escalate the American involvement in Vietnam, Johnson did."

"Only because we deemed him…unfit for office."

A chill went down Reagan's spine, as he considered the implications of that statement. Miller, still seated on the sofa, seemed to be giving him a cold stare through his sunglasses, his visible expression remaining cold, but neutral.

"Wait, but Johnson and Nixon both continued the war, and they served long terms - even Nixon."

"We aren't proud of Vietnam, since the US administration was, to be simple, very gung-ho about the affair, and every administration we've dealt with in our existence has demonstrated it to some extent, but Vietnam set a whole new precedent. The wheels of war were already in motion when Johnson came to power, he was forced to follow them, and we had to compromise. They could have their war, but they'd have to play ball with us in how to do it."

"But...we lost in Vietnam." replied Reagan, with a heavy dose of scepticism.

"Who said we wanted them to win? We end wars quickly with the least bloodshed. That meant we had to engineer the quickest conclusion that would least threaten the US and NATO. That meant ten years of playing a glorified pantomime, to prevent three decades of stalemate, and eventual defeat. The solution you saw, was the best possible outcome in the circumstances. Nixon tried to usurp us afterward but...we soon took care of that."

Reagan stood up behind his desk, his eyes possessing a flash of anger. "I refuse to be threatened by the likes of you!"

Miller remained stoic, merely continuing as if the conversation was civil.

"Reagan, I am going to end this here. When we deem it appropriate, you will receive a report from us. You will memorise it, and its instructions, then destroy it, telling no-one of its existence. We will co-operate, and when your presidency is over you will continue your life never mentioning, even implying, our existence. And do co-operate. You will handle the domestic side, and us the more sensitive side of National and Global security."

He pointed his crutch at Reagan.

"We are the experts in this particular field, and if we think that you are a danger we will act for the greater good. _Whatever_ that may take."

Miller stood up, and moved towards the door. "I wish you luck in your presidency, I hope we never meet again." He left the room.

Reagan stared at the door for some moments after Miller left, in a state of near shock. He struggled to truly grasp the enormity of the information he had been given, and to a certain extent, fearful for his life.

He walked away from his desk, and began to pace around the edge of the room, before eventually coming to a stop at a portrait of George Washington. This organization was nothing short of dangerous, if they danced around through potential conflict zones under the guise of the 'Greater Good', causing unregulated havoc. If they wanted to be a part of the US and NATO, they had to at least answer to the US Military.

"If I can get some evidence of this organization," he thought, "I have a tool with which I can negotiate. I'm the one in control here, not these unelected wildcards."

He removed the portrait, revealing a small audio recorder, the tape revolving as it recorded every sound being made within the office. It was state of the art, the tape being able to contain a couple of hours' worth of recorded sounds, with a play back feature.

He picked it up and, replacing the portrait, took the sound recorder back to his desk, walking briskly over the few meters it took for him to get there. Without hesitation, he found a point just before the man had entered; his yawn.

About a minute passed, until the sound of the Oval office door opening was just about audible.

It was followed by ear-splitting static.

"No! Damn it." Cried Reagan, as he began checking to see where the static stopped, fast-forwarding and playing with feverish determination, to find a scrap of evidence that this man, Miller, had spoken to him.

After a few minutes, the static began to die down, until it ceased completely, accompanied by the tiny sound of the office door closing. Reagan hit his hand against his desk in a state of near rage.

Suddenly, a voice began speaking on the recording, clear as if the speaker had been right next to the microphone.

"Mr President, don't try to bargain, or try and get some evidence of us. This is your only warning." The tape fell silent, save for the slight sounds of a president pacing the room.

Upon hearing that, the President of the United States slowly sunk into his chair, defeated. He didn't know who these people were, but they certainly had more power than he did. He committed their name to memory, and tore out the tape, as to destroy the evidence of the voice. He would play their game, as long as it served the American people. He said the name of tis orginization to himself, for what would probably be the last time.

"STRIKE"

* * *

Miller stood in a phone box a few blocks away from the White House, carefully dialling a number that had long been committed to memory. Once dialled, the call began, with long drones imitating the buzzing of the far away phone it was connecting to. Miller glanced around, double checking that no-one was taking too much notice of him, the street being busy and all. After what seemed like an eternity, the phone was picked up.

Without waiting for any response from the recipient of the call, Miller began.

"Hey there! listen, I have a bit of a problem, and I need some expertise to fix it. Bring your partner too, going to need an extra pair of hands for this one. Meet me in the usual place, and we'll talk details."

A muffled reply leaked through the receiver.

"See you there, Boss."

He exited the booth, and joined the bustling morning pedestrians of Washington DC, soon disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

 **A/N: Just a little prologue I came up with for something I am working on. Hopefully, future chapters will be longer. It's my first fic, so let me know your first impressions (Plus constructive criticism is much appreciated)! Don't ask about when I'll update though, should be around once a month, though if all goes well I'll post chapter 1 proper soon.**


	2. The Mexican Bandit

ACT 1 - CHAPTER 1

Early February 1981/ 21:34/ Mexico

The chopper flew through the darkened sky like a wraith, floating on the darkness. It made minimal sound, and the surface area was coloured in an opaque black; absent from any marking, identification or lighting. It was a ghost.

Before the day had begun, it had been a USAF UH-1N helicopter, designated for stealth missions. Tomorrow, it would most likely continue to be a USAF UH-1N. But tonight, it was strictly of the books, nothing more than a ghost. No more existent than the organisation behind its flight.

Behind the opaque windows, which gave the illusion of complete darkness inside the helicopter, were two passengers, save for the pilot. One of the two was a large, muscular man dressed in a jet black sneaking suit, carrying a backpack, who seemed to be in his forties - and hardened from combat. His companion was a woman, in her mid to late twenties, dressed in regular combat gear, with a large, ugly scar across her throat.

The bay was lit up by a single red light as the two worked diligently, sitting on opposite sides of the compartment, on their equipment, performing the last minute cleans, checks and loading required before a mission. Just like the helicopter carrying them, neither they nor the equipment wore any identification or markings.

A small stereo played music, but its volume was so low it was difficult to fully hear it. It served simply to add a degree of ambience to what was otherwise an environment not unlike a vacuum sealed tomb. The air carried an almost supernatural stillness, despite the whirring of the rotor blades and the vibrations of the Helicopter. Both had been on hundreds of combat missions, but both agreed that the silence before the mission was always the worst part, especially with the nature of their missions.

Not coming back didn't always have the luxury of being killed, and as a deniable asset that often meant an experience worse than death. They couldn't afford to let those thoughts slip in before the mission.

The man loaded his handgun, a slightly worn M1911, and holstered it before turning to his companion, who was across the bay loading her PSG1 rifle. "You ready, Quiet?" he asked in a hushed tone.

She looked at him, a steely determination in her eyes, exemplified by the glow of the red light in the helicopter. She nodded.

"ETA ten minutes! Sounds out, lights out!"

No sooner had the pilot shouted did the light fade from the helicopter, coating everything in a strangely alluring shadow, was the stereo was switched off by Quiet. The man, left with nothing but his thoughts for these last ten minutes, went over the details of the briefing once more, criticizing every minor detail.

* * *

Three Weeks Ago

Early January 1981/18:27/Washington DC

"Good evening, Boss" greeted Miller, with a neutral expression and a hint of sarcasm, as he hobbled toward the two from the stairwell he had exited. He was wearing the same outfit he always seemed to wear.

He had met them in a discrete and dilapidated office building on the outskirts of Washington DC, one that had been closed ever since the Depression during the 1930s, where it was least likely that anyone would notice or care about their presence. Big Boss had brought his operating partner, Quiet, to hear the details of their next mission, though both had made their way there separately and at different times. Both were sat, behind a table, on chairs they had found thrown about the place and both had had to wait some hours for Miller to arrive, and as such were slightly irate by the time of his arrival.

"What's the problem Miller?"

"Still all business I see," Miller's face dropped to a more serious glare, "We have a crisis."

"13 hours ago, a listening post in Mexico intercepted a coded transmission from Mexico City, from the offices of one Colonel Diego Hernandez, a rising star within the Mexican military." Miller threw an enlarged photo of him onto the table. Taken secretly, it portrayed him in formal attire during a gathering, presumably an upper class party. Visible only from the chest up, he appeared relatively lean for someone in the army, having a long face and short black hair. His eyes appeared, even at this social meeting, to carry a soft cruelty.

"This Colonel Hernandez, the transmission revealed, has been an exceptionally naughty boy – it contains an offer to partake in an upcoming coup of the nation's Government to one of the Mexican President's advisors. Now, Hernandez appears to have had quite a few contacts, as well as funds and allegiance pledges, as we have been able to confirm that parties like this serve as secret conferences for the plan."

Miller threw down another large photograph, depicting a column of Mechanized infantry units on a dust road, with Hernandez clearly visible atop the first vehicle.

"An organized coup could lead to a Civil War in Mexico in the best outcome, an anti-US Mexico at worst, since this Hernandez has made quite vocal in the past his dislike of America."

"Did we not pick this up earlier?"

"Look, if we had to assassinate everyone who said they didn't like America, half of the Free World and the majority of the Eastern Bloc would be dead." Quiet grinned slightly, whereas Snake gave an amused grunt. Miller paused, giving a glance to the two operatives seated before him, before continuing. "But that's beside the point, we need you to go in, and decapitate this plot by removing Hernandez; otherwise we're facing a worse situation than the Zimmerman Telegram. We need 'Naked Snake' to take care of this."

"It's been a while since we did wet-work," replied Snake, Quiet nodding in agreement, "We not needed in Afghanistan any longer? I thought we had a long term commitment"

Miller picked up a nearby chair, with some difficulty due to his single arm, and sat down on it. "No, we have separate operations taking over" he said in reply.

"Where is this Hernandez?" asked Snake.

Miller reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small map. A pen-written marking at the bottom of the map, simply reading "Mexico" was the only indication to the location that the map was detailing. "Our pilot will drop you off in the area." He pointed to an area on the map marked by mountains. "There's been a large influx of troops into this region by military sects we suspect to be in allegiance to Hernandez, and they appear to be collecting here." He marked an undistinguished area, around 5 miles away from the LZ.

"Have they got a camp there, or is it a rallying point for further operations?" asked Snake, maintaining his professionalism.

"A permanent camp built and developed by Hernandez's allies, outside the knowledge of the wider military structure. Hernandez will be visiting the base in three weeks on what is officially a leave of absence in the area. We suspect he's beginning to finalise the coup, with worst case predictions placing it within the next few months. We miss this chance; we will have an unstable Mexico on our doorstep. Kill him, and then radio it in- we'll have some USAF assets purge the camp of any other diehard undesirables"

Quiet raised an eyebrow, and Snake leant back in his seat "And how is STRIKE going to cover up a bombing? They're quite high profile."

"Leave it to us. You have around two weeks to prepare. Good luck."

Snake stood up, and Quiet reached over to pick up the map. "Thanks for the Intel" said Snake, as he turned to leave. Quiet sat back down to continue studying the map for possible set-up sites, wanting to leave at a separate time to Snake, as a precaution. As Snake was about to leave the room, he turned back to Quiet, and shouted "Meet me at the waterfront." Quiet nodded her head, indicating her reply.

Miller followed Snake out, leaving the building together. "I briefed the President earlier, you know" he said, as he fumbled in his pockets for the keys to his car; a Volkswagen with blacked out windows.

"Yeah? Do you want a medal?" replied Snake shortly, waiting for Miller to source his keys. The sun was beginning to set on the city, and so the area began to be clouded in a melancholic yellow, a glow which reflected off the keys once Miller pulled them out.

"Aha! What? No, I don't want a medal, just thought you'd be interested. You know, meeting the most powerful man in the Western World." The two entered the car, Snake sitting in the driver's seat. The car had been modified slightly, missing a gearstick in favour of a new automatic system. Snake started the car up, and began to drive away from the office building, re-joining the ordinary traffic within minutes.

"Isn't he only half as powerful as the world thinks though? After all, we effectively do half his job."

Miller shrugged. "Yeah, but he's a figure-head. I mean, who else is going to stand up as head of NATO? You?"

The car entered a highway, and began to head toward the waterfront. "Point taken. I assume you'll make me get out in the normal spot?" asked Snake, referring to his departure for the waterfront. He usually, when catching a ride with Miller (as rare as that was) was dropped off a few blocks away from the safe house.

"Of course, unless you want to jump out while I drive past." replied Miller, with a ghost of a grin.

"But I'm driving" said Snake, with a heavy dose of scepticism.

"Then let's put my reaction time to the test, how fast can I grab the wheel." Miller gave no hint of amusement.

Snake chuckled softly to himself, and continued down the highway.

* * *

The Present

Early February 1981/ 21:44/ Mexico

He had met Quiet later that evening at a safe house he had near the waterfront, where they began the arduous task of planning for the mission, plotting routes, possible fire zones etc. A week ago they had been picked up by STRIKE from that safe house, breaking their near isolation, and after a week of final preparation and transport, here they were.

"Descending, grab your shit!" shouted the pilot, and instinctively both Quiet and Snake double checked they had all their gear attached. They felt the Helicopter descending, and prepared to throw open the doors of both sides when instructed.

"Go Go Go!"

Both Snake and Quiet threw open the doors of the Helicopter, albeit on separate sides, and threw themselves to the ground, each readying their respective weapon in case a threat unexpectedly appeared. Quiet sported her PSG1, while Snake wielded an M16 assault rifle. Both of them strained their eyes into to surrounding darkness; as they both felt and heard the helicopter that had borne them ascend into the night sky. Eventually, it had disappeared entirely.

Quiet got up first, her rifle still readied. She took one last look around, before backing slowly toward Snake, giving him a light kick with her heel. Snake then got up, and dropped his weapon slightly, no obvious threats appearing. Quiet did likewise, and both began to take stock of their surroundings.

The area they were in was encased in darkness, but it was clear that they were in the desert-like area that had been described t them. They could see the slight silhouettes of rocks spread randomly, of varying heights, stretching toward the horizon. To their left was a sharp drop, lacking the characteristics that marked the other directions. Instead, the drop went down about 8 storeys, with a beacon of light being visible in the distance.

Both Quiet and Snake, maintaining their silence, walked to the edge of the cliff, setting up a rappel rope that they had bought with them. Both of them maintained a lookout for threats during their work, keeping one eye on the equipment and another on their surroundings. Within minutes they were at the bottom of the cliff, their wire stashed at the base of the cliff behind some rocks, ready to continue.

Snake had his head under a waterproof jacket he had, looking at the map he had brought along with a flashlight, while Quiet stood watch. The helicopter, according to the map, had dropped them slightly further away than intended, a hike of about 6 miles ahead of them. "Quiet, we're around a mile east of our intended drop-off, although the terrain is similar. We have a 6 mile journey to the base, and another cliff to traverse if we want to stay off-road."

Quiet replied by nudging him in a hurried manner, which Snake understood was her telling him to focus on something. Within moments, he heard it.

The sounds of a motor creeping up in the distance, growing ever louder.

Snake instantly switched of his light, casting off the jacket and staying low, with Quiet doing the same next to him. In the darkness, he could see two illuminated eyes coming toward them, clearly following a faint track that wasn't clear in the dark. Snake prayed they'd pass by. From the looks of it, the trail curved a few feet in front of them, then going left parallel to the cliff.

"Quiet" he whispered. She turned her head around, nodding her attention. "Move to the bend in the road, keeping low, just in case they stop. Don't engage unless needed though, they could miss these guys." The car, a weathered Jeep, was coming ever closer, kicking up dust and illuminating the night. Quiet moved stealthily, crawling quickly along the ground, and reached her spot on the right just as the Jeep came to the bend.

And to both of theirs frustration, it stopped just before the bend, pulling up on the trail.

The soldier in the passenger seat got out first, carrying a G3 assault rifle with one arm, a small flashlight in the other. The driver followed, wielding a sidearm in a hip holster that Snake couldn't make out. The two were conversing in the Catalan language, as far as Snake could make out.

" _Are you sure this is where the two were sighted, with the helicopter?_ " said the passenger, walking to the cliff edge with the flashlight, looking around the area. He passed within meters of Snake, unaware of the man holding his breath to avoid detection, the light never directly illuminating his figure.

" _Certain, we had a witness"_ replied the driver, moving in the opposite direction, moving away from where Quiet was, scanning the ground. "Damn, does he know we're still here?" thought Snake.

" _And do you know if this 'witness' is reputable? Do you even know who he, or she, is?"_

" _Not as such, but command – "_

The passenger groaned, before breaking off his search and glaring at the driver. " _No, we seem to get called out every week because some local thinks they saw an infiltration team, or the devil, or something. We're in the middle of nowhere, who even called it in?"_ He shone his torch along the base of the cliff _. "There is nothing here…wait…"_

The driver, now a short distance away (urinating) looked toward the passenger, and shouted _"What? Found something?"_

The passenger looked around wildly for a moment, before readying his rifle. "Shit, he found the rappel wire" thought Snake, looking at where his flashlight has faltered.

Before Snake could move, the passenger, who was retreating back to the Jeep swinging his rifle in each direction wildly, his flashlight forgotten on the ground, panicked as if an assassin would rush out of the darkness at him, tripped over the unmoving body of Snake with a faint cry. Snake seized the opportunity, quickly crawling on top of him, and breaking his neck, before he had a chance to see what he had tripped on, let alone realise he had found one of the intruders, and put up resistance. The soldier looked young. "Damn shame" thought Snake.

The driver stopped urinating, looking back at the area in front of the cliff, having heard the faint cry the passenger made. " _Juan? You okay?"_ When no answer was received, the driver began to stride toward the last spot he had seen his companion, brandishing his firearm. " _Juan!"_

He was in front of the Jeep, silhouetted by the still lit lights of the Jeep, when he was tackled to the ground by a fast moving figure. There was no other noise, or disturbance, save a slight thunk, that was barely distinguishable. Snake stood up, keeping his M16 ready as a precaution, when he saw a woman's silhouette rise from the ground. "Not subtle, was it?" he quipped.

Quiet, putting her Combat Knife back it its small scabbard, simply shook her head.

Snake did a light jog to the Jeep, gesturing to Quiet to join him. "They're going to miss these guys in a few hours, we need to move." Quiet nodded in agreement, and got in the passenger's seat. They would have to risk the roads and get the camp quickly; else the absence of the two they had just killed put the base on alert.

With that thought blazoned on both of their minds like a fresh brand, the two sped away in the Jeep, the dust that was kicked up by the accelerating vehicle quickly settling, some falling on the hidden corpses of the car's former occupants.

* * *

 **A/N: Decided to keep Chapters about this length, around 3k words.**


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